There are few things in life I love more than a proper Sunday roast. Crispy potatoes, beautifully cooked meat, an enormous amount of gravy and preferably absolutely no plans afterwards.
On paper, it's a fairly straightforward meal. Meat, potatoes, vegetables, Yorkshire puddings, gravy. Lovely.
And yet, somehow, people keep finding ways to interfere with it.
Now, I'm not claiming to be the ultimate authority on Sunday roasts. I'm simply a woman with some very strongly held opinions about what belongs on my plate, and I'm prepared to make those opinions everybody else's problem.
So, in the interest of public service, let's discuss.
The Meat: Beef Is King
Let's establish something immediately. Beef is the superior roast meat, and I won't be taking questions.
Beautifully pink in the middle, tender and full of flavour. That's what we're aiming for.
When I was little, however, I insisted on having my beef well done. A decision that genuinely makes me question my younger self's judgement.
Although, having reviewed my dating history, perhaps we shouldn't be surprised.
Thankfully, I've since developed better taste in both beef and men. Matt, you're welcome.
To every cow I had desecrated in my younger years, I sincerely apologise.
Now, somewhat controversially, my second favourite roast meat is chicken.
Anyone who knows me will appreciate how extraordinary this admission is, because I generally cannot stand chicken. Roast chicken breast, however, is the exception.
And I mean breast. Not a thigh. Not a wing. And certainly not an entire miniature chicken dumped onto my plate.
Why are restaurants serving whole poussin like we're attending a medieval banquet?
I've come out for Sunday lunch, not an anatomy lesson. I don't want to spend 45 minutes performing surgery on a tiny carcass in pursuit of approximately four mouthfuls of meat.
Just give me some properly carved roast chicken breast, without the bones or unnecessary excavation work, and let me eat my dinner in peace.
Pork and lamb are perfectly respectable options, but beef will always have my heart.
And whatever meat you're serving, the quality needs to be good. Non-negotiable. You can surround a disappointing piece of meat with every accompaniment known to humanity, but you're not fooling anyone.
Roast Potatoes: Stop Trying to Reinvent Them
A roast potato should be delightfully crispy on the outside and beautifully soft and fluffy in the middle.
That's it. That's the assignment.
I don't need Parmesan, truffle oil or anything unnecessarily fancy. A proper, traditional roast potato, cooked brilliantly, is already a thing of beauty.
And can we PLEASE discuss restaurants serving frozen roast potatoes?
We can tell.
They taste like gack, and no amount of gravy is going to convince me otherwise.
If I'm paying good money for a Sunday roast, I don't think expecting an actual roast potato is particularly unreasonable.
While we're here, mashed potato has absolutely no business being on a roast dinner.
None.
I love mash in the appropriate circumstances, but those circumstances do not include sitting next to roast potatoes on a Sunday lunch plate.
We already have potatoes. We've roasted them. The matter is settled.
Yorkshire Puddings Are for EVERY Roast
I know there are people who believe Yorkshire puddings should only accompany beef.
Those people are wrong.
Beef, chicken, pork, lamb. I don't care. If I'm having a roast dinner, I want Yorkshire puddings.
What I don't want, however, is a Yorkshire pudding roughly the size of the O2 Arena.
Some restaurants seem to have turned them into an architectural competition. They're enormous, towering over everything else on the plate, and the tops are inevitably so dry you could use them to exfoliate.
Give me a couple of normal-sized Yorkshires. Golden, beautifully risen and ready to soak up a frankly unreasonable amount of gravy.
Bigger isn't always better.
Yes, I'm aware of how that sounds. Moving on.
The Vegetable Situation Has Gotten Out of Hand
Right. We need to talk about carrots.
I LOVE carrots.
Proper carrots. Normal carrots. Actual, identifiable carrots.
What I don't want is a handful of Chantenay carrots masquerading as a vegetable portion.
And I certainly don't want them covered in honey.
Why are we constantly trying to make savoury food sweet? Carrots are already delicious. They don't need glazing, sweetening or generally interfering with.
I ordered a roast dinner, not a pudding with beef on the side.
But the greatest offence of all?
Carrot and swede crush.
I cannot begin to explain the disappointment of ordering a Sunday roast, expecting carrots, and receiving an orange mound of mashed vegetables where the carrot is apparently making a guest appearance.
Why do restaurants assume this fulfils their carrot obligations?
It does not.
This is not sufficient carrotage, and I will be taking the matter further.
As for the rest of the vegetable department, broccoli is always welcome. Cabbage and leeks with bacon? Absolutely glorious. A Brussels sprout or two? Why not!
Green beans are fine. I'm not exactly writing home about them, but they're perfectly acceptable.
Parsnips, meanwhile, can attend if they must, although I won't be saving them a seat.
I'm really not difficult. I just want vegetables that taste like vegetables, preferably without someone trying to turn them into dessert.
And, for the avoidance of doubt, proper carrots.
Stuffing, Gravy and the Sauce Situation
Stuffing is another accompaniment that shouldn't be restricted to one particular meat.
Poultry? Yes. Pork? Absolutely. Beef? Go on, then.
With lamb, however, we have something called munch, a herby, breadcrumb-like coating that deserves its own little moment of appreciation.
And then there's gravy.
Gravy is not the time for restraint.
I want plenty of it. Enough to coat the meat, get into the potatoes and fill every available Yorkshire pudding.
It needs some body, too. Thick-ish, with enough substance to actually cling to the food, but not so thick you could use it to repoint the patio.
Watery gravy?
Absolutely not.
That's just beef-flavoured disappointment.
And don't come at me with one of those tiny gravy boats containing approximately three tablespoons. What exactly am I supposed to do with that?
Now, sauces.
Firstly, absolutely nothing sweet.
Apple sauce? No. Cranberry sauce? Also no.
I don't want jam interfering with my Sunday dinner, thank you very much.
Mint sauce, however, is welcome with practically everything.
And before anyone gets clever, I mean proper mint sauce. NOT mint jelly. They're not interchangeable, and I won't hear otherwise.
Horseradish makes the occasional appearance, as does English mustard or Dijon, depending on my mood.
But mint sauce is the reliable favourite. She turns up, does her job and doesn't try to be dessert.
Pigs in Blankets: A Gift From God
I'm not a particularly religious woman, but if there is a God, pigs in blankets might be his finest work.
A tiny sausage wrapped in bacon?
Inspired. Revolutionary. Frankly, thank you for your service.
The problem is that I could quite comfortably demolish a packet of 12 PIBs without a moment's hesitation.
Not a particularly proud admission, but an important one.
So, for my own wellbeing, I've had to introduce some boundaries.
PIBs are reserved for occasion roasts. Christmas, Easter, a particularly special Sunday.
Not because they don't deserve a permanent place on the plate, but because I cannot be trusted around them.
Someone has to be the adult in this relationship, and unfortunately, it's me.
The Pub Roast Problem
I love going out for a Sunday roast. There's something wonderful about somebody else doing all the cooking and, more importantly, all the washing-up.
But here's the thing.
Most pub roasts are just... okay.
Not awful. Not particularly memorable. Just okay.
And when you're paying a decent amount for a Sunday lunch, okay feels a bit disappointing.
Of course, there are exceptions. The Pembroke Arms, Chapter House and Heligan Gardens Kitchen have all delivered roasts worthy of recognition.
The rest of the industry should consider this a gentle nudge.
For me, though, nothing quite beats a proper homemade roast.
You can cook the beef exactly how you like it, get the potatoes gloriously crispy, make gravy by the bucketload and serve portions that actually constitute a meal.
Nobody's sneaking swede into your carrots.
Nobody's presenting you with a miniature chicken carcass.
Nobody's trying to distract you from disappointing meat with a Yorkshire pudding large enough to accommodate a family of four.
And nobody's charging you £25 for the privilege.
So, What Makes the Perfect Sunday Roast?
For me, it's beautifully pink roast beef, proper crispy potatoes, normal-sized Yorkshire puddings, generous helpings of vegetables and enough gravy to cause a minor flooding incident.
A bit of stuffing. Proper mint sauce. Maybe some PIBs if the occasion warrants it.
Nothing overly fancy. Nothing sweet where sweet things don't belong. Just good-quality ingredients, cooked properly, served generously.
Because that's the thing about a Sunday roast. It doesn't need reinventing.
It just needs doing well.
And if you're a restaurant reading this, I have one final request.
Please, for the love of everything, ensure there is sufficient carrotage.
Molly
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